


Hamiltrash Incorporated

by thebriars



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Bar Fight, Healer John, I'm taking requests love me pls, John plays baseball fite me, Kiss cam, LAMS YALL I HAVE AN OBSESSION, Lams - Freeform, Multi, One Shot Collection, Summer Camp AU, actual crap, did i mention lams, help yourself just credit yours truly please, i'm from the south i get to use yall, probs never ending, really just elongated prompts, there will be lams, updates when I feel like it, yall i need to sleep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-10 03:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebriars/pseuds/thebriars
Summary: These are just mini one-shots- really just elongated prompts. I might write more if there's a demand, but I'd love for y'all to use the ideas if you want to. Just credit me please.guys i have an actual problem with lams like my own father just flat-out told me that i'm obsessedLATEST UPDATE: Crimson - A bar fight takes a turn for the worse bc life ft. Laflams and healer!johnyeah thanks dad i know





	1. Hospital AU. P.S. There's Lams

**Author's Note:**

> HERE YA GO
> 
> I just needed to get these out of my head. There's a lot up there mah dudes idk what to do about them so now they're here

Something about the hospital was driving Alexander insane. Perfect white lines, the scent of cleaner and medicine, and a hush that felt so unnatural. Alex could have screamed. Where was his messy office? His perpetual coffee smell? His familial bonds? Alex hugged his notepad closer to his chest and tried to ignore the bottle of hand-sanitizer lying a few inches away.

His trance was disrupted by a quiet, cheerful voice.  “Can I help you?” Alex glanced up too fast and blinked at the sudden rush of blood. The girl before him looked genuinely happy, which Alex hadn’t thought was possible in a hospital. He tried a smile.

“Uh, hi, I’m Alexander Hamilton. I’m the journalist from the Times.” He waited, wondering how the girl would take it in. Some people looked down on him with disgust after he revealed his profession, others with admiration. The media was a tricky business.

“Great!” The girl practically _bounced_ , making Alex feel like tearing his hair out. The entire facility was a contradictory statement. “I’m Eliza, by the way.” She outstretched a pale, astonishingly soft-looking hand. Alex took it cautiously.

Eliza spun away to check some papers at the back of the reception desk area, humming slightly. She was pretty- pin-straight, ebony hair, indigo eyes, a soft smile. Intelligence, for sure, and infinite patience. Alex felt a vague interest pull at his heart. Eliza would be good for him. Of course, Alex was looking for a thrill ride, not a residential street. Nevertheless, he watched her move (or, really, float) around with attentiveness. Once more, her soft voice broke his thoughts.

“… call John. He’ll give you a tour,” she said, business-like and yet completely sincere and gentle. Eliza herself seemed to be a walking oxymoron.

 _John_. Who was John? Probably a nurse, or a doctor, or something along those lines. Alex knew a grand total of nothing about the medical line of work. He would have opted to stay far, far away from the hospital if it weren’t for the stupid deadline and Jefferson’s even more stupid vacation.

Fucking Jefferson.

As much as Alex tried to be unbiased and objective, tried to channel his inner Aaron Burr, he always ended up judging. He liked to play a game of sorts and decode the person before he met them. Alex tended to be accurate.

John. John was white, heavyset without being overlarge, bearer of thick glasses and old-timey views. Homophobic, probably, religious. Overly proud of his achievements in the medical industry. Balding, graying, dissolving in general. Alex would probably hate him.

Alexander Hamilton was not expecting the man who turned up behind him.

Tall, but not lanky. Strong, but not “ripped”. Dressed in pale blue scrubs.

Then Alex looked up.

This man had skin the color of toffee, spattered with burgundy freckled. Hands that moved like water as they peeled the disposable gloves from his skin. And a _face_. Not just a face, but a face fit for the gods. Warm, amber eyes that seemed to glow. Even more freckles, if that was possible. A slight smile. Faintly rosy cheeks. Barely crinkled brow. Thick curls, pulled back in a ponytail.

And a nametag. A nametag that read _John Laurens_. And, in smaller script, _SURGEON_.

“Hi. You must be Alexander.”

Yes. Yes, he was Alexander, but the way John Laurens said it was like spreading perfectly soft butter across perfectly baked bread. It was like smelling the fresh air that came after the rain. It was like feeling the dew beneath your bare feet in the morning.

In other words, completely and utterly _right_. Yes, the name “Alexander” was supposed to be said that way.

Alex realized that it had been a moment since John had spoken, and he scrambled to make up for the awkward pause.

“Yes! Yes. Hi. I’m Alex. Alexander Hamilton. I’m the… journalist.”

Oh God. Throw him off of Mount Everest.

Of course, John didn’t seem to care. He merely smiled, which was like watching a fucking _supernova_. “Great! I’m John Laurens. Looks like I’m your tour guide.”

_Ah, fuck._

 

Alex managed to take some (very) professional notes throughout his tour. He was on his way to a great story.

 

GEORGE KING MEMORIAL HOSPITAL NOTES: A.HAM

 

  * _John Laurens has a nice ass_
  * _and a nice face_
  * _and a nice personality_
  * _stay far away from angelica_
  * _eliza is nothing like her sister (make friends asap)_
  * _peggy is chill af_
  * _mulligan will kick your ass and Lafayette will kiss it_
  * _john laurens is a wonderful human_
  * _fuck_



He scanned the notes with resignation. Alex had two weeks left to study the hospital and write a breathtaking piece on the new hospital.

He also, apparently, had two weeks to try and get over this sudden and complete infatuation with John Laurens.


	2. Boots and Lams and Boots and Lams and Boots and Lams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola I'm back
> 
> I wrote this in the car in my notes app so there will be grammar mistakes

They'd been on the move for what seemed like centuries. Alex was tired, bedraggled, and sore. He was craving some sort of food from home that he couldn't recall the name of. It seemed that his Spanish was slipping away from him nowadays, in stark contrast to his rapidly improving French.

But now they were settled in, tents pitched and cots set up. Washington was planning on staying the winter there, which gave Alex the liberty to set up his miniature office. If only Washington hadn't ordered him to take a break from his relentless work schedule. Alex felt as though he could write a storm of letters to Congress without a pause.

He glanced across the shadowy tent to John's unoccupied bed. Where could he be? In fact, Alex hadn't seen John since the morning, and yet his few belongings were unpacked. They seemed to have avoided each other completely.

Alex could feel a blush rising rapidly in his cheeks, the love child of embarrassment and some strange melancholy. God. He had been so, so stupid. Thinking that John could want him as well. And still, all it had taken was a few sips from Washington's whiskey supply for Alex to lose his mind completely and spill his heart and soul to John.

John Laurens. The blush grew warmer at the mere thought of him. Tall, strong, skin like milky tea and freckles the color of polished wood. And his eyes. John's eyes belonged in paintings of mythical creatures. They shone amber and gold in the night, like glittering lanterns.

Not to mention that he was brilliant. John was as smart as Alex, no competition, and his passionate writings on slavery struck awe in the hearts of peers and scholars alike. And he was kind. Kind and gentle and caring. John noticed everything, managed to coax a life story in moments. He was charismatic and warm.

Pretty much everybody had a little crush on John Laurens. You were insane if you didn't.

Alex sank into his bed. Everything was sore from long hours on horseback, especially without the company of his best friend. John seemed to distract him from the world. They were a perfect pair.

He had to get his mind of John. Perhaps a change of clothes and some self-care. Alex breathed heavily and pulled off his coat, draping it carefully across the chair he had snatched from Washington's headquarters. The coat was a clear representation of his views. Alex might not be careful with himself, but he was careful with his coat.

Had he really gotten that sweaty? The weather was dipping down and he was used to a tropical climate, and yet Alexander managed to sweat a river. He popped the shirt out and waved it around a little bit before laying it across the chair seat.

Alex wet a washcloth and began to scrub a bit. He was hoping that there'd be some way to take a true bath sometime soon. God knows that he needed it.

Cool air kissed his skin. Alex glanced up and froze. John stood hesitantly at the tent's entrance, his hand hovering on the loose flaps. There was something in his eyes that Alex couldn't place.

"Hello, John," he said softly, setting the washcloth back in the bowl of water.

"Hi, Alex." He was quiet; subdued. There was exhaustion in the way John walked, slowly and carefully, as though he feared that he might crumple to the ground. John dropped to his cot with a sigh, rubbing his face in his hands.

Alex nervously straightened the papers on his desk, needing to do something with his hands lest they begin to shake. He cleared his throat, desperately wanting to break the fragile silence in the tent. It felt as though someone was slowly wrapping a noose about his neck. "What- what's on your mind?"

A bitter laugh. "Local merchants only take British money, which is something we don't have. Also, it's supposed to be a brutal winter, according to the civilians. I don't know, Alex. I don't know how long we can do this." John flopped back onto the cot, his back arching as he stretched.

"Does Washington have a plan? He has practically banished me from headquarters for a while."

"Alex, you're not invincible. Take this time to relax. Sleep. Actually eat for once. I'm worried about you." John observed Alex fidget through half-closed eyes, a concerned frown wrinkling his brow.

"I'm fine."

There was restraint in John's voice. He was normally so open, but he felt oddly closed off. There was formality in their conversation that had never been there before. Alex hated it.

He settled down to take off his boots. Alex's feet felt as though he had danced on hot coals and rusted nails, having walked for a while as well. Alex rolled his ankle and began to tug.

And tug.

And tug.

The stupid boot refused to come off, no matter how hard Alex pulled. He could have screamed. He just wanted to take off his boots and wash his feet for once. Fuck.

Alex sighed grumpily, glaring down at his shoe. Then he glanced up at John, who had curled up, facing the tent wall. This was going to be hard.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"I can't get my boot off," Alex grumbled. He could imagine that he looked hilariously flustered- face red and hair a mess, slouched angrily on the bed.

John snorted and rolled off the cot, landing gracefully in a kneel before Alex. For some reason, Alex felt like melting into the ground as John took his foot, sliding a freckled hand down the boot to the heel.

Jesus fucking Christ, Alexander! Get your act together.

"Okay. I'm going to pull now. You pull back." Alex nodded, savoring John's voice. "One, two, three!"

Alex suddenly crashed backwards, his eyes still on John as the latter fell back as well, holding the boot with triumph.

And they were laughing. They were laughing like they used to, with joy and simple friendship. Alex had missed that laugh.

They crawled back, and Alex found his face dangerously close to John's. They were breathing hard, faces flushed, eyes wide and pupils enlarged.

John's lips pressed together, then separated slowly and Alex couldn't seem to look away.

"A-Alex. About... last night."

Oh. Alex's heart plummeted. John glanced down.

"I want to apologize. I shouldn't have pushed you away. I was... scared, I guess, which isn't an excuse."

"John. John, what are you saying?"

John inhaled deeply and looked up, meeting Alex's eyes with a fire that he had never seen before.

"Alexander Hamilton, may I kiss you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking requests (aus, ships, characters, etc.)
> 
> Sooooo ya hit me up


	3. Jefferson's Fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I wrote this in a fucking outhouse don't judge me

Somehow, Alex hat set his house on fire.

He stood in the lawn, open-mouthed and rather frazzled after his mad dash from the structure, laptop in hand, broken window in his path.

How did he manage to do something so completely stupid? Alexander Hamilton was never stupid. Or, at least, not to this degree. Usually. Well, he might have told the world he was cheating on Eliza with her future girlfriend via Twitter. And maybe he'd ended up suspended multiple times after punching Thomas Jefferson. And maybe he'd lied to his friends about his origins for the sake of his own ego.

But setting his house on fire was a new level of complete and utter stupidity.

Especially because it wasn't his house.

At least he knew that George wouldn't be too mad. Martha, definitely. George? No.

Alex ran a hand through his hair. God. Was he really that bad at cooking? Had a simple batch of macaroni and cheese really escalated into a full on house fire?

Wait. Mac and cheese. Jefferson.

Goddammit. Of course it was Jefferson's fault. Alex had been so engrossed in his essay, devoted to the purpose of slamming Thomas into the dirt (where he belonged).

Fucking Jefferson.

Alex could feel the heat rolling from the steadily growing fire. It seemed that the kitchen and dining room, and Alex's bedroom above, were the only areas currently caught in the flames. He could hear the sirens wailing in the background, growing ever nearer, most likely responding to his quick call.

The engine roared to a stop, the sirens cutting off abruptly. Alex simply watched, heart sinking (unlike the flames). Dammit.

"What the fuck, Alexander?"

Alex winced. Right. John had a shift today. "Hey babe."

"Did you...?"

"Yep. Don't judge."

"No, I'm judging," John laughed. He lifted his visor to press a quick kiss to Alex's forehead before sprinting off after his coworkers.

"Ah, shit," Alex muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah john is a volunteer firefighter because he's my child


	4. Too Long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this in my notes app
> 
> Yep guys brain vomit

It took way too long for Alex to realize he was in love. It took weeks of sleepless nights and confused tirades to Peggy for him to realize that Alex had fallen for his best friend. And his other best friend.

Not only was Alex in love with John, he was in love with Eliza.

John was kind and passionate and lived as though he were caught in a dream. His warm skin was dotted with tiny freckles and his hazel eyes sparkled beneath lashes as thick as his curly ponytail. John liked pastries and history and turtles. John ran an art blog and gave speeches at pride events. John held Alex back from Jefferson and took punches for him. John was everything Alex needed, but Alex wanted more.

That's where Eliza came in.

Eliza was quiet and caring and gentle. Eliza slipped in and filled the empty spaces. Eliza held Alex when there was a storm and proof read all his essays. Eliza laughed at the stupidest of jokes but could kill you with a glare if it went too far. Eliza liked sunlight and warm air and messy kitchens. Eliza loved family and tucked-away coffee shops. Eliza was soft where Alex was rough. Eliza was the glue that held everything together.

Alex couldn't live without either of them, and he told them this much one evening on the roof of their dorm building. Eliza laughed and told him she loved them both too. John responded by drawing all three together and nibbling on Alex's jaw and caressing Eliza's waist.

Alex could've cried, but instead he kissed Eliza and kissed John and woke up curled around Eliza with his hand enveloped in John's.

Afterwards, they were a team. An unstoppable team. They spoke at pro-poly events. They sipped coffee together. They baked. They held each other at night.

Alex and John held Eliza when she got mugged behind the dorm building.

Alex and Eliza held John when he came back from a visit to South Carolina with bruises and a long cut on his forearm.

Eliza and John held Alex when they ran into his father on the edge of campus.

And they held each other through it all.

They were one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for elams


	5. Watching it Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was also found in my notes

Alexander approached his door slowly, dreading what awaited inside. His feet dragged as he ascended the steps, heart heavy and his brain fuzzy.

Washington must be so disappointed.

Jefferson and his entourage were celebrating.

Angelica was fuming; he could feel her wrath from across the ocean.

Maria must be heartbroken.

And Philip was purely... Alexander didn't want to think about the look on his son's face.

But it wasn't the snide remarks from Jefferson, the sad stare of Washington, Philip's sadness, or Angelica's anger that he feared.

It was Eliza.

Eliza, quiet and beautiful and brilliant. Persistent in her endeavors but never rude. She was a wonderful mother and a perfect wife. Alexander loved her as he loved John, but it was these traits that he feared.

Eliza wouldn't scream. Eliza wouldn't leave. Eliza would be distant and sad and yet kind. Alexander nearly looked forward to Angelica's arrival, because he could not face Eliza's heartbroken resignation but he tolerate Angelica's ruthlessness.

Alexander couldn't understand it. He also couldn't understand why he did it. He had everything. Why did he throw it away?

Angelica's words echoed around him.

Satisfied.

That was it, wasn't it? He could never have enough, he could never be done. Was it because of his origins? Alexander wasn't sure.

And suddenly he was there at the door. After a moment, he inhaled sharply and entered quietly, his heart pounding.

The house was dark and still. The children would be in bed. Eliza was probably upstairs.

Alexander mounted the staircase, his fingers dragging along the banister. He paused again at the top and turned to the closed door that hid his room.

It was so silent.

Alexander braces himself and opened the door, slowly.

A paper came to rest at his feet. He glanced down, but his gaze was drawn to Eliza.

She was beautiful there, silhouetted by the fire. Eliza sat with her back straight, her arms around her chest and her skirt pooled about her. The papers fluttered around her like the remnants of a hurricane.

"Eliza," Alexander started, soft and sad.

"I've done it."

Silence fell again.

Alexander waited for a minute before opening his mouth to talk again, but Eliza beat him to it.

"They're all gone." Her tone was icy and indifferent, but he heard the pain. "That's what you wanted, right? Your legacy is spotless, and they'll remember only for that perfect political record. And that's all you care about."

Alexander blinked, but didn't argue. He slumped against the door.

"You started it. I've finished it. And that's it."

Eliza hunched over.

Alexander walked forward, wondering what Eliza meant. And then he saw it.

The drawers were flung open and their contents spilled across the floor. Ink and parchment and quills. Shattered and stained. And the box Eliza kept at her bedside, filled with letters, was smoldering in the hearth, its contents now ashes rising up and coloring the tears on Eliza's cheeks gray.

Alexander dropped to the floor behind her, his mind going to the hours he spent formulating those letters, picking over the words, rereading and rewriting and hesitantly sending it off. Those letters were the fruit of a tedious task. How could she destroy his writing?

But then he realized that he deserved it. He had manipulated Eliza into this only to leave her alone while he wallowed in self pity about his political ambition. He had thrown it away, feeling as if she wasn't giving him something. He had gone and messed it all up. The tears pricked at his eyes.

But Eliza was shaking and he felt the need to be there with her, to comfort her. He reached out a hand, but she pulled away, turning her head. Alexander rose unsteadily, taking in the destruction around the room.

"Eliza, I'm sorry."

"Damn right you're sorry."

Eliza got to her knees and began to gather the papers.

"Eliza, I-."

"Alexander, I want you to get out."

She was furious, but her voice was ever gentle. He stiffened at her words.

"Eliza, I love you."

"I can't know that. Please leave."

Alexander sank low and turned slowly, shutting the door behind him.

A sob ripped through the air behind him, followed by a crash and a dull thud. Alexander slid down the door, hitting the floor softly. He leaned back, tears in his cheeks, and listened to his wife cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexander fucked up y'all


	6. Five Fucks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is stupid

Everybody had them, and yet they never came up in the day-to-day conversations and casual coffee shop chats. But Alex knew that each and every person he passed throughout the city was overly aware of them. They had to be. Alex couldn't have been the only one who felt their presence tugging at the edge of his consciousness. They were there in his dreams. He often felt his fingers moving to trace them over, running skin against skin in the soft small of his back, searching out the rigid lines. He observed them in the mirror, worrying his lip and creasing his brow.

What would happen when he ran out? Alex was dangerously close to that precipice. And he was only twenty-three. Most people never lost them all.

Every human was born with five fucks. Five fucks carved in dark ink into the small of their back. No one completely comprehended what made them go.

Some people liked to think that each line represented a weight on your soul. One could only be truly free once all of their fucks were gone.

Others thought they displayed the important things, and they only disappeared when those important things left.

Others yet believed that each one symbolized the life changing things that would occur throughout that person's existence.

And the rest? They didn't think they meant anything.

Alexander Hamilton hovered between the last two. He knew why each one left, but what would happen when he ran out of fucks to give?

The first time Alex had lost a fuck was when his father left. The second, his mother's death. The third, the hurricane. The fourth, Maria Reynolds.

And now he had one more.

When would it leave? What would trigger it? Would it _ever_ disappear anyway?

Alex sighed and tugged his sweater back down. He was there in the Starbucks bathroom, worrying about fucks. God, this was pathetic. He had work to do. A meeting with Angie later. An argument with Jefferson to carry on.

He slumped against the wall and slid down to the floor, ignoring the way the textured wallpaper scraped his back and how the sweater bunched uncomfortably. Alex buried his head in his hands and clamped down in the inside of his cheek.

The door flung open beside him. A startled "Oh!" cracked the atmosphere. Alex glanced up.

Freckles and amber eyes. Dark curls and clear intelligence. Also, kindness.

And it dawned on him, just as Alex felt the tingling begin at the base of his back. With slight melancholy and maybe a little sentiment, Alex released his tight grip.

It crept towards the gaps.

_Alex might have first seen this man .2 seconds before..._

It slipped through his fingers.

_He might not know his name..._

And it faded out into the heavily perfumed Starbucks-bathroom air.

_But he was going to ask this man out on a date._

And that was it.

Alexander Hamilton's last fuck had left him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was entertaining


	7. QPR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops I updated

What was the likely hood of this?

Angelica wished she could take a moment to calculate the exact probability, but she was too busy running as if her life depended on it. Which it did, in a way. Eliza might resort to axe murder if Angie lost Peggy at a pride parade.

"Dammit!" Angie swore, falling into a stop in the middle of the street. So far, she had sighted John and Alex (passionately making out in front of some idiots holding homophobic signs), Herc and Laf (exploring the joys of face paint everywhere), Thomas Jefferson and James Madison (hoisting huge rainbow flags), Eliza and Maria (listening to a speech), but not Peggy.

Where the fuck was _Peggy_?

Angie could practically taste the axe murder. She swore beneath her breath and jogged off again, weaving through the crowd with ease. The aromantic flag tied on like a cape was bouncing behind her, which made Angelica feel oddly like a Jedi or a wizard or something.

"Margarita Schuyler, get your ass over here ASAP!" she hollered, glaring out through the tangle of people. A few people turned their heads, but none of the confused faces belonged to the youngest Schuyler.

Angelica swore again, only to be cut off by a sudden weight on her back. "What the fu-!"

"Hey Angie."

"Peggy, you ass, get off me."

"No."

"Yes, goddammit."

"Ugh, fine," Peggy muttered, sliding down from her perch on Angie's shoulders. "Besides, there's someone I want you to meet."

"Peggy, do you not see this flag?" Angelica deadpanned, waving the end of her aromantic cape in her sister's face.

"Yeah, yeah, chill, I'm thinking QPR."

"Oh." Angelica had thought about having a QPR for ages. The only person who had come close to her standards was Alexander- whip-smart and handsome- but Angie had read him in an instant. He'd never be satisfied with a QPR relationship. And, honestly, could Angie? God.

"Um, so, yeah. This is Theo..." Peggy stated, slow and cautious. She gestured a short girl with creamy brown skin and faint freckles forward.

"Er, hey. Looks like your sister is trying to set us up," Theo said, grinning awkwardly. Angie laughed.

Yeah, maybe this would work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there anything to say?
> 
> Nope I'm too emotionally drained.


	8. John vs. The Forces of Love and Peggy Schuyler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might make the camp counselors thing a series because me gusta

There was paint everywhere.

Paint in his hair, paint on his hands, paint on his jaw, paint on the bridge of his nose and his forearm. John loved it. He loved the feel of it, slowly drying into a smear of color. He loved the faintly overpowering smell of it. He loved the vibrance against his toffee skin and burgundy freckles.

John stood in the doorway to the art room, which was located on the second floor, and looked out over camp. It was raining, slowly but surely transferring from the morning's drizzle to an afternoon thunderstorm. A lighting flashed over the lake, echoing in faint thunder, and John sighed.

He loved rain even more that he loved paint.

The little balcony outside the door (though it was really just a landing for the outside stairs) was trembling in the sudden gusts of wind. John decided that it was probably safer to take the tight spiral staircase down to the foyer and walk the main trail instead of the rickety wooden stairs.

He took them slowly, hand trailing across the metal railing. They had a few days of orientation left before the campers arrived, which made John oddly nostalgic. He loved hanging out with the other counselors, sleeping in a bit, and learning the ins and outs of camp. John had been dubbed the art director, giving him an excuse to disappear into the art room and delve into the paints stashed in the back of a cabinet.

Thunder roared, closer and louder, making the building shake ever so slightly. John remembered that Herc and Laf, two of the other counselors in his cabin, had been canoeing (code for kissing). Hopefully, they made it in safely.

It didn't look there was going to be a break or let up in the downpour. That didn't faze storm-loving John at all, however, so he simply dashed out of the room and into the rain.

It was cold. It was stinging and rough. John pulled the collar of his jacket up further and ducked his head as he dashed down the hill to the cabin path. If only his cabin wasn't the very last on the trail. Dammit.

He sprinted, careful not to slip on the cobblestones, and ignored the ominous crack of thunder above him. John may have loved storms, but that didn't mean he was interested in getting hit by lighting or a felled tree.

New York cabin was approaching rapidly. John took the stairs two at a time, flung open the door, and stood in the communal living room, dripping wet. It was dark inside. Odd.

Alexander was supposed to be here, working on activity ideas for the older kids. Herc and Laf had probably taken shelter in the storage shed by the lake. But Alex? Where was he?

"Alex?" John called.

Silence.

"Alexander Hamilton, are you here?"

Nothing. John sighed and peeled off his coat, dropping onto one of the hooks by the door. He kicked off his shoes and discarded his damp socks by the fireplace, wringing his hair out on the way. John ducked into the first sleeping room, glancing around for any sign of Alex, narrowing in on the boy's bed.

No one there. John frowned. He studied the shadowy corners, flicked the lights on, checked again, flicked them off, and moved on.

The second sleeping room, which Herc and Laf shared, was empty too. John felt a small jump of excitement as he looked over the empty bunks. Soon, they'd be full. God, John could jump for joy.

The final sleeping room was John's. John quickly peered around and turned to go, but a quiet sniffle from his own bed made him turn around again.

"Er, Alex?" Yeah, he was there alright, curled up in a tight ball beneath John's comforter. Alex's dark hair spilled across the pillow and his face was scrunched up and buried in he arm.

A whimper.

"Alexander, what's wrong?" Thunder shook the bunks and Alex jumped. Oh.

John padded over to the bed, scooping Alex up in one smooth motion and pulling him tight to his chest.

They sat together, John whispering sweet nothings, until the storm let up and the other two returned.

There was something about holding onto Alexander, taking in the slightly inky smell he carried in a smokey cloud. Something about his smooth skin beneath John's and the way Alex nuzzled his head against John's chin that made his heart patter like the rain outside.

John caught Peggy giving him a knowing look at dinner, wiggling her eyebrows in Alex's direction.

So. The universe and Peggy Schuyler were against John now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peggy is me


	9. In New York You Can Be A New Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR U HELLO 
> 
> ok so I write two different versions of our lovely marquis. If I use the name Laf, i am writing the nb fashionista from ragti and ragtfy. If i use the name Gil, refer to daisy_river's Gil for personality reference. Laf = paaaaaan. Gil = straight or bi depending. I know there's a lot of fandom tension around lafayette's set personality but before anyone gets passionate I want to say that I love my babies equally and y'all know that ragti and ragtfy are polysquad heavy but I usually write Gil with Adrienne or Peggy..... anyway I just wanted to clear shit up love you don't kill me for the slight leggy going in here it's daisy_river's fault for writing everything so perfectly YOU TURNED ME TO THE DARK SIDE OF THE HAMILTRASHCAN

New York was masked in a blanket of fog. Only the tops of the skyscrapers poked through, and the Statue of Liberty was hidden from sight. Passengers craned their necks to get a glimpse of the famous city, but Gil sat in his seat with his eyes closed and his knuckles white on the armrests. He hated heights.

Of course, this was not his first time flying into the harbor of New York. His parents had wanted him to have dual citizenship in France and the US, so Gil had traveled over a few times before to learn about the country as a child. Now he was old enough to live by himself long enough to apply for citizenship, so he had packed his bags and left France about 8 hours ago to start a new adventure as a student at a small liberal arts college. He would be living off campus, though, with some roommate he had only spoken with over email.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Gil opened his eyes and relaxed his death grip on the arm rests. A timid flight attendant was holding a bag for trash in one hand and gripping the back if the seat in front of him with the other. The plane bounced and she rocked with it.

"Ah, I do not have any trash, thank you," Gil said in a choked voice and went back to trying not to think about being in the air.

Very high in the air.

Very, very high in the air.

The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom and the plane shifted as it began its descent to the runway. Gil began to mumble a prayer beneath his breath, thankful the the old lady next to him was asleep. His ears popped and his stomach dropped.

After about five minutes of pure terror, Gil felt the wheels bump against the mercifully solid ground. His eyes flew open and he let out a shaky breath. Whoever invented the plane was not only a genius but a despicable person. Gil's neighbor and best friend Marius use to tease that heights were the only thing the courageous boy had ever feared. Gil smiled at the thought of Marius, who had settled down to attend school and spend more time with his girlfriend Cosette after a few years of travel with his family.

The airport was huge. Gil shouldered his backpack after stopping to refill his water bottle and followed the signs to customs. The hustle of New York and the rapid fire English, harsher than the accent of the UK, was delightfully exotic in comparison to the soft French and the lazy pace of Paris. The vibrant little stores and the advertisements were so completely American that Gil almost laughed. Bright and loud and full of the intoxicating rush that came with being at the forefront of the modern world.

Customs took longer than he would have liked it to, but Gil reached the baggage claim fairly quickly. It was pure ecstasy to sit down on something solid and unmoving as he waited for the flight's suitcases to work their way down. Gil munched on a granola bar. America was exciting, as any foreign country was, but his heart ached for quiet France.

"Oof!" Gil sparked back into reality as a bag hit him in the face. He clutched at his nose, cursing in rapid French.

"Oh my god! Oh my... I'm so sorry!"

Gil peered up at the girl who had spoken. She was staring down at him with big hazel eyes, her dark brows crinkled in worry. She was pretty, no doubt, but Gil only felt a twinge of annoyance.

"Agh... it is fine. I do not think that it is anything bad," Gil said in a strangled voice, his carefully hidden accent popping through on the blasted "th". Her brow creased further and Gil cursed again in low French.

"Are you sure?"

"Oui, I am fine." Gil realized that she really was very pretty. Lots of thick, walnut-colored curls.

"I'm really, really sorry. I tripped and..." She twirled her hand in an 'you know what happened' manner.

Gil grinned. "Not to worry." He lifted his hand away from his nose. "See? It is all okay!"

She laughed, and Gil felt a small flicker or triumph, though why it felt like he had won something by making this girl feel happy. "Ah, I really am sorry though. I'm a bit of a klutz."

"You? Never!" Gil exclaimed. She laughed again.

"By the way, you haven't seen-?"

But she was cut off by a blur of teal and a cry of "Peggy!"

The two staggered away, and Gil noticed the baggage carousal was running. He popped up to scan the monotonous suitcases for his own bags, but was distracted by the two- wait, no, -three-- girls off to his left. The one who he had talked to (Peggy, maybe?) was buried under the girl in the teal dress and tan trench coat and a girl in a peach sweater. The new ones were laughing and surveying Peggy as if she might have grown wings or an extra foot while she was away.

"How was England?" the teal one cried, trying to take Peggy's luggage.

"It was wonderful, and, really, Eliza, you don't need to take that," Peggy laughed, waving Eliza away.

"Angelica has been fathoming ways to kill George for a while now."

"I will bash his skull in with a brick," Angelica muttered, pounding her fist into the palm of her hand.

Peggy winced. "Angelica, no murder, please."

Gil noticed his red suitcases coming around the carousal. As he jogged over, he wondered whether he might have had siblings if his parents had lived longer.

They clearly were sisters. Angelica and Peggy might have had warmer complexions and big waves instead of Eliza's fair skin and straight, inky hair, but their eyes had the same shape and glittering brown irises. There was also something in the curve of their legs and the tilt of their mouths that made them look similar. Peggy was shorter and softer than the other two. Angelica was the same height as Lafayette- nearly six feet- and Eliza was rather petite in general.

Lafayette dragged his two suitcases along, looking for his ride. His phone had pinged in his pocket, alerting him to a text from Hercules Mulligan.

\--Almost there--

Suddenly, Peggy had popped up next to him. "Do you have a ride?"

"Huh? Oh, yes. My new roommate is picking me up soon."

"Cool. What's their name?"

"His name is- um-" Lafayette glanced down as his phone pinged again. "Ah, yes. 'ercules Mulligan, perhaps?"

Peggy choked on her breath. "You're Herc's roommate?"

"I think so...?" Gil glanced around the cavernous room, searching for a person who was fit to bear a name like Hercules, if that was even possible.

"Oh god, you're the French guy," Peggy was muttering, taping her fingers against her lower lip.

"Oui?" Gil said, his voice rising into a confused question.

"Well, that was a terrible way for me to introduce myself, seeing as Herc's my best friend. I'm Peggy Schuyler, it's short for Margarita, no, you can't call me anything related to alcohol, and those two geeks are my sisters," Peggy said in a rush of air, flinging out her hand in greeting. Gil grinned and took her small fingers in his, pressing a kiss to her knuckles and making her squeak.

"Do you want the short name or the long one?"

"Both."

"Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, shortened to Gilbert du Motier or just Lafayette," he rushed, hoping to get it out as quickly as possible. Peggy blinked. "But I go by Gil."

Peggy grinned, her eyes flashing. "Well, nice to meet you, Gil. The one in blue is Eliza, peach is Angelica. Angie will murder you and Eliza will bake cookies for your funeral."

"I will keep that in mind," Gil laughed.

"Hey, no flirting with my sister!" Angelica called, stomping over to where they stood. Peggy groaned.

"Angie, this is Herc's new roommate."

Immediately, there was a shift in Angelica's features. She went from offensive to neutral, even excited, in a matter of milliseconds. Gil could tell that she was not one to be reckoned with.

"Hello, Mr. Roommate," she said, cheerful, but clearly wary.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Schuyler," Gil returned, figuring that layering on the French charm wouldn't hurt. He kissed her hand as well, earning a surprised grin from the eldest Schuyler. "And to you, too, Eliza."

The middle sister shook her head, exasperated. "Oh, you flatter me. Come on, I think I see Herc."

So. Only about an hour into his stay in America and Gil had befriended three sisters, clearly wealthy, all brilliant and beautiful in turn. He shook his head, slightly dazed, and jogged after the girls, suitcase trailing behind him.

Hercules was indeed fit to bear the name of a Greek hero. Tall and strong, decked out in fashionably casual clothes, short curls tucked beneath an olive green beanie. He was grinning and holding a sign that said FRENCH FRY. Gil jogged over, smiling sheepishly.

"Lafayette?"

"You pronounced it correctly."

"My friend speaks French and I asked him," Herc said, slightly embarrassed.

"Really?" Gil gasped. "Who? Oh, mon dieu, this is wonderful." He may have bounced a little in happiness, electing a giggle from Peggy.

"Yeah," Hercules huffed. "I am strictly English-only."

"Don't you Irish hate the English?" Eliza asked, furrowing her brow.

"I moved when I was five, Betsey," Herc sighed.

"That's a yes," Angelica snipped.

Herc pondered. "I'm pretty sure hating the English is in my DNA. Or maybe it's just that King guy who lives next to us. Oh, boy, you're going to hate him."

"I thought that France was also supposed to dislike the English," Peggy murmured, making brief eye contact with Gil before shifting back to her sisters.

"Oh, yes, we do. And now they have left the Union, so it is okay for me to be grumpy with them now." He was of French noble descent- of course he was salty about the English.

Angie roared, eating up his political joke. Classic. The rest of them shook their heads, disappointed, though Gil couldn't tell whether it was aimed at him or Angelica.

Gil sighed happily. Herc seemed great, the Schuylers were positively delightful, and there was apparently another person in the group who spoke French.

New York was looking better and better with every passing second.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway series maybe??????? I found this d e e p in my notes app haha help me


	10. Kiss Cam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
> 
> I want to do a follow up of this later I think let me know if I want that

"Alex, that hat is about three times too big for you," John said, dubious. Alex glared and adjusted the cap, definitively ignoring John's halfhearted swipes. "C'mon, Hamilton," he moaned.

As the outfielders jogged back to the dugout, the top-pointing arrow flipping as the inning changed, John's ponytail caught in the sunlight.

He really did seem to radiate the stuff. John might consider himself a turtle, but Alex saw him as a sunflower and only a sunflower.

John leapt to his feet as the noise grew throughout the stadium, a clenched fist ready to launch into the air. Alex watched with mild interest, his eyes focusing on the tiny speck soaring their way.

Their way.

"Holy _shit_!"

John stretched his fingers up for the ball. His height gave him a clear advantage over Alex, who was hopping feebly.

Of course, it sailed right over them. Alex spun to see who snatched it.

"Is that Jefferson?"

"Ugh, fuck him."

John breathed a laugh, settling back down into his seat, only to hop back on his feet. "That was a safe!"

"What the fuck is a _safe_?" Alex asked, throwing his hands into the air.

"Do you know anything at all about baseball?" John responded. He watched the replay flowing across the screen opposite. Alex watched as it displayed an- umbrella? Umbridge? Umpire?- flung his arms wide, palms down.

John whooped and sat back down. "Told you so. And, Hamilton, give me back my hat."

He sighed. "Fine. But only if you buy me a hot dog."

"Yeah, yeah, alright." John fitted the baseball cap down over his low ponytail, grinning happily.

Alex watched him react to the plays, grinning and cheering or booing and shouting along with the crowd. The mid afternoon sun caught in the stray curls and made John's freckles shimmer dark against his skin. His eyes were nearly glowing. Alex didn't understand baseball, but he loved watching John in the stadium. He loved it nearly as much as he loved watching John play, swinging the bat gracefully and sliding into base with ease. God, it was hard to watch him be so damn beautiful.

Suddenly, there was music playing, and John was tugging Alex to his feet, singing brazenly. Alex grinned and tried guessing the words, swaying happily with John's hip against his.

_Take me out to the ball game._

Alex could see why this was America's favorite pastime. It was so very... _American_... that it couldn't possibly be any other way. Hot dogs and roaring stadiums, sprinting and hitting and sliding and catching and throwing. There was a respect for the other team, even as the opponent's fans booed their successes- light applause when there was a good play and when a- pumper? Pitcher?- left the mound. And there was energy, rising and falling like the waves, ebbing in and out. It slowed as the game settled into a pattern and skyrocketed when something exciting happened. Yes, this was John's game.

The realization that John was now holding hot dogs hit Alex in the form of aroma.

"Here you go, ya goof." John pressed the little paper tray into his hands.

They are in silence for a brief moment, but the hot dogs were gone before long and they had returned to watching the big screen. There was some sort of contest on the field that Alex didn't care about.

"What's even happening?"

"It's the seventh inning stretch," John responded, flashing an incredulous look.

"Wait, what now?"

"It's just the kiss cam- still seventh inning stretch."

Alex watched an elderly couple share an surprisingly passionate kiss, too the whoop of the crowd. A young couple give the camera a brief, sweet one. A middle aged man kiss his laughing wife's cheek. And a freckled boy and a red headed girl staring awkwardly at the- hold the fuck up.

John was getting more flustered by the millisecond and the crowd was cheering, egging them on. The curly haired red head was blushing deeply, clearly shy. They were both fidgeting and opening their mouths as if to say something and then closing them. Alex sighed.

Fuck, he was going to regret this.

Alex wasn't in the frame, so it came as a surprise to the crowd when he launched himself out of his seat and grabbed John into a passionate kiss, squeezing his eyes as if he was trying to eek orange juice from them. John gave a muffled gasp, Jefferson coughed loudly from above, and Alex dropped back into his chair, blushing madly and apologizing incoherently. John was staring at him, chest rising and falling. A quick glance up let him know that the camera was still on them and that the crowd was having a heart attack.

And then there was someone's hand grasping the front of his chest. A freckled, paint splattered, calloused hand. John's hand.

There was a moment where Alex met John's eyes, but it was too short to see what emotions lay there.

Because John's mouth was soft against his and Alex had given a little squeak of surprise, his hands finding John's waist. And John ran his tongue over his lips and it was no longer an innocent press and a full on tongue tango of sorts.

The crowd loved it, clearly, but the blood in Alex's ears was rushing too much for him to really hear.

He was kissing John Laurens.

Holy shit.

 

Later, as the sun sank lower into the sky and the game's tension rose, the camera sought them out again. The little "awwww" from the crowd made Alex's heart soar up, up into the fading blue of the sky.

He was curled in John's lap, head tucked in the ski-slope of of his (boyfriend's???) neck, arms around each other and John's cheek resting atop Alex's hair.

They waved and grinned.

Alex was happy. Truly, truly happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love baseball wtf but I happen to be a twins fan so it's been depressing for the last ten years or so *sigh*
> 
> Anyway yeah follow up???? Maybe... KISS CAM PROPOSAL??????!!!!!!!!
> 
> Ps what is ur fav baseball team?


	11. Silence Speaks Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEEEEEEP
> 
> tw for abuse and self harm, implied but there. stay safe mah dudes <3
> 
> aNYWAY this is based off of something i read but CANT FIND so i wrote my own version so if any of yall know of a story that is the exact same fucking plot then that is what this is based off of
> 
> UPDATE!!!!!!!! The original is called Always and it's by Kira_Gold!

John rubbed his wrist, a bad habit from his younger days. He tugged on the sleeves of his sweater, pulling them down to his hands. Herc should be coming soon. The mug was warm between his fingers, anchoring John to the coffee shop and the world around him.

December was beautiful in New York City, the snow dusting across the brownstones and skyscrapers. The people passing amongst the white banks, wrapped in colorful scarves and ears covered with knitted hats.

It was the perfect scene for photography or a painting or even a charcoal sketch. The artistic blood that pounding through John’s veins made him ache to capture the moment in eternity.

He sipped his coffee, watching the door for Herc’s large form in the snow.

The snow had been foreign to John when he first arrived, having never actually seen the stuff. South Carolina had never been gifted with the soft flakes.

Thinking of the originality of snowflakes themselves convinced John to dig his sketchbook from his backpack.

He paged through the artwork, looking for an empty page. Sketches of Hercules, Lafayette, Maria in all her beauty, the Schuyler sisters, strangers he had caught glimpses of, skyscapes, animals (particularly turtles) … the soft lines blurred before him, becoming eerily similar as he passed on. Every single person John had carved in ink was holding their forearm out to the viewer, displaying the words etched across their skin.

Herc, his beanie slipping down into his closed eyes, showed the world the French inscribed over his wrist. _You look familiar._

Laf, their eyeliner as perfect as always, grinning down at the _I don’t speak Mandarin_ printed below.

Maria. _I think you’re bleeding._

Eliza. _Probably, but I’m okay._

Angelica. _I’m aromantic too!_

Peggy. _Are you listening to Broadway?_

But, most often, there were self-portraits. Abstract, realistic, and everything in between. The prominent feature in every one, however, was John’s bare wrist- slightly scarred, but completely blank.

He found a blank page eventually and began to sketch, drawing out the image of a storefront, hazy and light in the background. John wanted to focus on drawing some detailed snowflakes in the foreground.

Disappearing into his art, John was startled when the table shook and his lukewarm coffee sloshed in the mug. Herc had arrived, covered in frost and wearing a goofy grin.

John laughed at his expression. “What’s up with you?”

“Not much,” Herc said in a strangled voice, bouncing slightly in his chair.

“Yeah, sure,” John snorted, shaking his head incredulously and returning to his sketch.

He waited. Herc was sure to spit it out in a moment.

“I got a commission!”

John looked up quickly, already smiling. Herc was a talented fashion designer (much to Laf’s delight) and he had been vying for jobs among the city elite. “Herc, that’s great!”

His friend slipped into a detailed explanation of the fabrics he wanted to use and the style and the event and the technicalities of the profession that John could never understand.

John’s sleeve slipped back as he reached for Herc’s coffee, which was still warm. He flinched. He hated the sight of the scars, hated the fact that he had resorted to that. John prided himself on immaculate self-control. He wasn’t proud that he hadn’t been able to use it then.

But most of all, John flinched at the reminder that he was different- broken, inhuman. His father’s words echoed through his head. It was wrong to have a blank wrist. Even aromantic Angelica had a platonic soulmate. John was a flaw in the grand scheme of things, a glitch.

Herc and John talked and ate and enjoyed the simple presence of one another for the next hour, the peaceful connection interrupted only by a frantic text from Laf, who had accidently set off the smoke alarm in their apartment with the stove.

 

John had class the next morning, which he spent avidly listening to Washington explain the significance of the Federalist Papers. As much as John was an artist, he also loved history. And science. And medicine. Really, John loved school in general. It had always been an escape for him, even when he lived in the south.

Better than home, that was for sure.

He took careful notes, doodling in the margins to help him remember the important points. Laf had once called John’s notes works of art themselves. Stylized fonts and three-dimensional arrows created perfect flow charts and John’s brain understood.

There weren’t any people that John knew personally in the lecture hall, but it surprised John that he noticed the unfamiliar face in the back. Mostly because he was positive anybody would have remembered that face.

Bright, soulful eyes the color of coffee grounds. Ebony hair, a shade darker than Eliza’s, pulled into a ponytail at the back of his head. Warm skin, like the clay John used to dig from his backyard. A crooked smile. A slight goatee. Long, nimble hands.

And, of course, a series of words on the inside of his right wrist.

John turned away and focused on a question posed by one of the more brilliant people in the class. This was probably worth paying attention to.

Not some boy John couldn’t have.

 

Francis was sitting on the bed across the room, ranting about some kid named Seabury who had made a homophobic comment in the commons. Francis’ soulmate, Jonathan, had been there too (of course) and was apparently stuck with an anxious Peggy, who was tending to his bruised knuckles and split lip.

John laughed at appropriate times and growled curses at Seabury when called for. He did a good job at faking happiness.

“I swear Angelica was slow clapping the whole time. I think she would have strangled Seabury if Jonathan hadn’t tried first,” Francis proclaimed.

“I can believe that. Actually, it’s pretty likely that Angie has murdered someone before,” John snickered.

Francis laughed, a warm sound that used to send shivers through John’s gut before Jonathan stumbled into their lives.

“We should study,” John said mournfully. Francis realized he had left his backpack in Jonathan’s dorm and went to retrieve it, leaving John alone.

He had friends and good memories, of course, but John wasn’t a happy person in the end. Torturous pasts and continued loneliness and self-doubt did not make for a good mixture.

John’s phone dinged.

 

 **herc:** come down to the commons

 

 **you:** wat

 

 **herc:** asshole just come down

 

It would be nice to get out for a bit. John sent off a few choice curse words and stretched, rolling out his shoulders. It was a nice day. The sun glinted off the snow, the excitement over the upcoming holidays was strong, and the evergreens lining the walk to the commons were decorated with a copious amount of lights and baubles and tinsel (probably the work of two Schuyler sisters).

John gazed out over the campus, sighed again, and went to find his boots and coat.

 

The walk to the commons was brisk and pleasant. John buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He still wasn’t used to northern winters, but he enjoyed them much more than the South Carolina heat. He breathed a little puff of air out and watched it disintegrate. He remembered how his kindergarten teacher would call them baby dragons when the weather dipped low enough to let the “smoke” fill the air. He had puffed little lines of gauzy white while the other kids roared and danced around.

Kindergarten hadn’t been so bad.

John puffed a laugh.

He relished the sudden warmth of the commons, peeling off his scarf and jacket. John stamped the snow off his boots and scanned the wide room for Herc.

There.

“John, get over here!”

“ _Coming,_ god,” John muttered, putting an “okay” sign up in the air. He weaved through the small groups of students scattered here and there, avoiding eye contact whenever possible.

The boy from Washington’s class was sitting in one of the big armchairs, legs curled beneath him and laptop open on his lap. The words on his wrist stood out against the toffee colored skin. Herc leaned an arm on John’s shoulder.

“This is Alexander.” Herc was grinning senselessly, a knowing look in his eye.

John held out his hand, which Alexander took for a firm and friendly handshake. “Nice to meet you; I’m John.”

Alexander’s eyes went wide.

He pulled his hand back suddenly, but before John could react, Alexander had his forearm bare and outstretched.

There. John’s exact words, written in Alexander’s skin.

That was impossible.

John had two options at the moment- stay or sprint. Fight or flight. He felt Herc’s strong hand on his shoulder, a reminder that there were other people there too. But John could only see Alexander’s dumbfounded expression and his arm, displaying John’s introduction.

“That- that’s _impossible_ ,” John choked out, voicing the thoughts coursing through his mind. Alexander frowned. “Alexander, I don’t have a soulmate.”

His eyes narrowed. John felt the question, the judgement coming on. He cast his eyes to the ground.

Alexander gently took John’s wrist, a softness in his touch that made John jump. He’d never felt anything like that before. John watched Alexander pull back the sleeve. Watched him frown. Watched him trace the pale scars lining the sensitive skin. Watched him smile.

Smile?

Alexander dug in his backpack, pulling out a notebook and a pen. John cradled his arm, the skin sparking from where Alexander had touched. Herc stood silently behind him, offering support.

 

_I’m mute._

 

The handwriting was cramped and yet neat, the handwriting of someone who writes quickly and constantly. But John wasn’t focused on the handwriting.

It made sense, much to John’s shock.

Herc was bouncing and barely restraining a squeal, but John was paying attention to him. He was watching Alex’s hopeful eyes and trying not to think too much and failing.

God.

John fumbled through his hurricane of thoughts, groping for one that made sense. There. Yes.

Smile. No, grin. Grin and mean it. Look down, back up, meet his eyes, pull his arm back, tuck his hand into his pocket. Chew his lip, glance at Herc, and feel Alex move up to stand eye level. Feel a hand on his cheek, a gentle kiss on his cheek, feel the sparks fly. Form words and try to make sense of it all.

“Tomorrow, coffee?”

A nod, a pause, a shake, a finger pointing to the clock on the wall and then to the ground. A cocky smile.

A laugh. “Yeah, now’s good.”

 

John tumbled into the dorm, snow falling from his shoulders. Francis and Jonathon are curled together, watching Netflix on Francis’s laptop. John flew across the room and flopped onto the bed, a faint squeal escaping his lips.

“What’s gotten into you?” Jon asked, grinning in confusion as John pulled his phone out and wildly refreshed a text conversation.

“You’ll never, ever guess.”

“You won the lotto?”

“I never win shit.”

“Ooh, your dad fell off the Empire State Building.”

“If _only._ ”

“You have a date?”

“Closer. True, but that’s not it.”

Francis and Jon frowned simultaneously. “Ok, John, spit it out.”

“I met my soulmate. His name is Alex and he’s brilliant and beautiful and hilarious and passionate and, oh, _god_ , you have no idea; he’s so kind. And he’s mute! He’s mute, and he’s got my words but that’s why I don’t have his because he never _said anything_. Isn’t that insane? I don’t even know what to think or feel, goddammit. Like, my head is spinning? I sorta want to just cry but I’m too happy. Why am I telling you this. God, I don’t know, but _holy shit_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just fucking love this idea


	12. Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I previously had this as a one shot but imma move it here

The rain didn’t feel cold anymore.

John had been standing in the rain for so long that it hardly registered. He was numb. He couldn’t feel his cheeks or his fingers and, in all honesty, he didn’t want to. He met the redcoat’s eyes- cold gray against warm amber- and smiled. John Laurens, cocky to the end.

His knees hit the ground and his hand found his side. Pain echoed across his body and John cried out for Alexander.

No one was there.

John had hoped endlessly that times might change and that he and Alex could be together. That they could spend warm evenings walking through the city, hands clasped. John had built a world in his mind in which not a single person even glanced their way when they shared a chaste kiss. _As if._  

Alexander could shape palaces with his words. John had only his thoughts.

But the other part of John made him try and be rational.

How could he and Alexander continue their relationship when they no longer had a private tent to share and the blessings of wartime? As much as John wanted more time, he knew that is would be simpler for him to die. Eliza was far too wonderful a person for Alexander to cheat on. Neither man’s conscious could permit it. And it would be nearly impossible for them to ever have time to themselves.

This could not work in the future, so they had to stop. He had to end it, as much as it tore his soul.

No, it was easier to John to die, because the young country needed Alexander Hamilton. John Laurens could join the ranks of the fallen- yet another name for history to forget- but if America was to survive, Alex had to survive as well.

Maybe that was why John threw his fellow soldier out of the way.

Maybe that was why he took the bullet.

Maybe that was why John Laurens, for once in his life, didn’t strike back.

John fell in the wet grass, one hand clasped to the wound and the other sinking into the mud. He coughed, crimson blood blooming at the corner of his mouth.

He thought of Martha and Frances and the broken family he was leaving behind.

He thought of his dreams and ambitions and of the visions he saw for the country.

But most of all, John thought of the one person who made him feel like the king of the heavens and yet humbled him to the merest crumb of humanity.

John Laurens died with Alexander Hamilton’s name on his lips.

 

The locals later combed the battlefield, looking for any valuables they might exploit. They passed over each body and rummaged for anything salvageable.

Indifference was the lovechild of violence and familiarity. These people were full of indifference.

However, they gathered around one body in the field that seemed different. This body nearly made them care.

His freckled face was soaked in blood and coated in earth. His legs were folded awkwardly beneath him and his hand was pressed into the bullet wound that ended his life. But he was smiling.

This man was content in death.

They stared down at the remains, united for a brief moment in grief for the loss of a life so young and vibrant.

Not a single person stole from that body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Late Death Day john my baby I love you


	13. Totally Fucked (yes that's a reference)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii welcome back to this shitty work enjoy ur stay luv u

Alex was fucked. He was so fucked that it had moved beyond the realm of "oh shit" into the "let me fall off a cliff" zone of life. Not that it was his fault, shockingly, because how in the world was he supposed to know that John Laurens had a baby? An adorable, chubby baby girl already smattered with freckles and flaunting tiny brown curls?

Yes, he was fucked.

John was rocking Francis to imaginary music, bouncing a little and humming into her ear as she stretched in his arms. There was something so insanely _hot_ about the way John looked at his daughter, so perfectly domestic about the way he grinned when Eliza cooed over Francis' tiny fingers.

Alex swished his wine, watching his coworkers drift over, one by one, to ask about John and Francis. Eliza first, of course, with a bored Peggy falling in her footsteps. Lafayette practically had a heart attack, Herc clapped him on the back and said something along the lines of "she looks just like you" (judging from Alex's rather impressive lip reading skills). Angelica passed by, mostly out of courtesy, but Alex saw the tenderness in her motions and the softness in her face. The Washingtons stopped over to inquire, Maria breezed past, pausing to sigh over Francis. Even Jefferson and Madison went over, James' stoic exterior cracking a little when Francis yawned. Thomas tried to hide a smile.

And yet, Alex still sat at the table, watching and pondering.

God.

John slipped over. "I've gotta go to the bathroom. Can you hold her?" And, suddenly, there was a baby in Alexander Hamilton's arms and a squeak from his lips. Why him? Why not Eliza?

Figures. Eliza and Maria were slow dancing and staring into each other's eyes. Not that Alex could blame them- he wanted the very same thing.

Francis nuzzled against Alex's chest and smacked her lips, freezing when she realized that the man holding her was most certainly not her father. She glanced up in confusion and Alexander positively gasped.

John's eyes. John's bright amber eyes, glittering and nearly eerie, sparkled wide and curious in the face of Francis Laurens.

_God._

"Hey Alex, thanks for holding her." John was back, drying his hands on his pants and shoving stray curls from his face.

"No problem." _Pluck up your courage, Hamilton._ "Um, John, would you like to go out for, like, coffee? Or something? Tomorrow?"

"As in a date?" John asked, a sly grin spreading across his face.

Alex inhaled sharply. "Yeah. As in a date." Was that a blush on John's cheeks?

"That sounds amazing. Text me the details."

So. Alex had a date with John. The night was going much better than he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Francis is the ultimate wingman


	14. Crimson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bar fight goes wrong, but not in the way you'd expect

A night out at the pub. Familiar, easy. 

An argument. 

Alex, hands waving wide and mouth racing, alcohol only heightening his aggravation. Laf and John, lounges together against the bar, sneaking touches and watching warily. 

A flashing blade. 

Two yells, a hundred wide eyes. 

A sprint and a shove and two more yells. 

One scream. 

Alex caught him. John's hands, searching for the wound, mind a blur, Alex a mess. 

Up in one of the rooms. Laf on the table, Alex pressed against the wall, John's sleeves to his elbows. 

Two hands slammed to a wound. Two hands coated in crimson, searching within to stitch the stab together again.

John had never felt this much power rushing through his nerves before. His mind caught on the warning hung in every hospital. He shook himself and watched Laf's face. 

The rush building up in his fingers, his palms, his wrists. Up to his elbows, his shoulders, but still he worked. He was close, reaching for the heart and the brain and he was almost there and he was just ending it, just going to pull out when the build-up became too much, too strong, too-

He felt himself fall. 

 

Lafayette sat straight up, panting a little, soaked in blood. His head was fuzzy and the room was blurred. He remembered a fight and a knife and Alexander and- oh. 

There was a scar in his stomach that hadn't been there before, stitched together with the precision that only certain healers could reach. 

John. John, of course, his John had healed him. Laf smiled, looked up for his boys, and saw nothing. 

No. There was Alex, on the floor, holding John tight, panic in his eyes. 

Laf knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically, ninyaaaaaah's rules for healing apply here and john doesn't heed them *tear*


End file.
